


jump from the train

by elysiumwaits



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Abusive Neil Hargrove, Always Female Billy Hargrove, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:53:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24123919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elysiumwaits/pseuds/elysiumwaits
Summary: Harrington finally blows out a sigh. "It's not a letterman," he says, which is... not what Billie expected. "You just look cold. So, like, if you want my jacket, I'll let you borrow it."It's not... gentle, exactly. But it is patient, Billie thinks, like he's holding out his hand and trying to coax a skittish stray cat toward him without a word. Truth is, she is cold. Like, really cold. She wishes she'd been able to grab shoes before she scrambled out her window with her keys and no real plan."Billie," Steve adds, quiet. "No strings."
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 21
Kudos: 190





	jump from the train

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know. I started an Always a Girl Steve in another document and then I had this idea, so here we are.
> 
> **Please read with caution, this fic deals with the aftermath of abuse and implied sexual assault, including implied/referenced rape/non-con. Please read responsibly.**
> 
> Title from "The Archer" by Taylor Swift.

Billie used to think that turning eighteen would make a difference. Like, she would turn eighteen, pack up her Camaro, and drive off into the sunset. She used to say she'd never look back. The world could burn behind her and she wouldn't care.

What actually happens is this: Billie turns eighteen, she goes to school and cracks a couple of jokes about being legal now, and then she takes herself and Maxine home. There's no party, really. Susan makes her a cake, which is... _sweet_ , Billie supposes. Maxine shoves a hastily wrapped set of make-up at her. Then they all disperse and try to make themselves quiet and invisible before Billie's dad gets home at six.

Billie's not good at being invisible. She never has been.

Anyway, the world keeps turning on like it has before. Billie doesn't go driving off in a blaze of "fuck you" glory. She still carts Maxine around like she's some kind of overworked, underpaid chauffeur, because Max can't ask anyone else for rides without it being a big deal. She still goes to school, because at this point in her life she knows that a scholarship is a ticket out of her dad's house. She still wears split lips and bruises like badges of honor while she makes up stories about getting into fights or fending off jealous girlfriends at the bars a couple towns over.

Nothing changes. Maybe that's what hurts the most about it all.

-

Indiana is surprisingly chilly in early May. Or, at least, it's chilly at night, like winter's not yet ready to let go of the breezes just yet. Billie would probably be warmer if she'd get in her car, but she hates sleeping in the backseat. She'd kind of been hoping that the blanket would be enough, and she could just lay on the hood and let the night pass her by. As it is, she's got the blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her bare feet on the bumper, bruised face tilted to the sky.

Billie's body aches.

She got out the window, at least, before it got _worse_. Neil won't touch Maxine, not when he's got Billie or Susan as an option. Max's at a sleepover with Chief Hopper's kid tonight, Billie only runs when she's sure Max won't suffer for it. Not that Max ever has. Billie's made sure of it. 

Billie's cold. Despite that, she's almost asleep when she hears the sound of tires on gravel. It takes her a minute to rouse herself enough to sit up and pretend she's out here because she wants to be. The yawn is nearly impossible to suppress, even as she glances over her shoulder to make sure it's not a police car or someone she doesn't want to fuck with tonight. She can always go park behind the high school instead.

Harrington's BMW is a surprisingly relieving sight. Normally, Billie would be rolling her eyes, or already relishing the chance to fuck with him. King Steve doesn't know what to _do_ with a girl like Billie, so he's fun to rile up. She's heard stories about him before, about how Harrington used to be the hottest thing in Hawkins before he got all tangled up with Wheeler. He used to be _wild_ , Billie's heard. 

Tonight, though, Billie's just relieved it's Harrington. He's... _safe_ , she's found. Genuinely a good guy these days. Apparently he was never a _complete_ asshole, even if he used to step out on girls. Billie's heard that even then, he was never the type to take advantage of a drunk chick, was never the type to push anyone farther than they wanted to go. According to Tommy, Steve once caught someone spiking a drink, and pointed it out so that Tommy could go punch his teeth in. 

Steve Harrington's safe. He's a good guy, who won't see her out here in bare feet and get some idea that Billie is easy prey.

Billie fishes around in the folds of the blanket for her cigarettes and lighter. A car door closes just as she finally coaxes one out of the pack, tries to get her hands to stop shaking long enough she can light the damn thing without singing her eyebrows off. There's a pause after the door closes, and then the sound of hesitant shoes on the gravel. 

"Billie?" Steve calls, clearly surprised. It's half past one in the morning, of course he's surprised. No one should be out at the quarry this late. 

Of all the gin joints, or something. 

"Thank god you're here, Harrington," Billie drawls in reply, not turning to look. She finally gives up on the fucking lighter when she realizes she's at risk of setting her big, comfortable blanket on fire, rather than her eyebrows. "Turns out I need a hero. You got a light?"

There's a snort, and the footsteps aren't so hesitant anymore. Billie's surprised when the car ends up shifting with his weight, like he's settling onto it. When she risks a glance, he's leaning on it, digging in the pocket of his jacket. Finally he pulls out a lighter, goes to hand it over.

It kills Billie a little to clear her throat and say, "Light it for me, my hands are cold." Steve's safe, she reminds herself. He won't use this as some excuse to drop a sleazy pick-up line or grope her in the name of warming up. 

In fact, he doesn't say anything. He just lights her smoke, and then shoves the lighter back into his pocket. Billie's shamefully relieved when Steve doesn't walk away either, just turns his face up to the clear sky over the quarry like Billie's. They sit like that for ten minutes or so, until Billie's flicked the butt of her cigarette down to the ground. He stubs it out with his shoe, and Billie's pathetically grateful for that too, because it means she doesn't have to draw attention that she's fucking barefoot out here. 

He probably already noticed. Harrington is a lot smarter than people give him credit for.

"You want my jacket?" 

Billie jumps when he speaks, voice cutting through the quiet of the late night. It's annoying that he _startled_ her, that she can be startled at all. She's tired and hurting, she's off her game, and that's dangerous. 

Then again, Harrington is safe.

She wets her lips, musters up what she hopes is an appropriate amount of derision. " _No_ , Harrington. I _don't_ want your jacket. I'm not your fucking _girlfriend_ , I'm not gonna wear your _letterman_ or your class ring." It comes out more pissed off and tired than Billie was shooting for, cracked by the way her mouth is a little dry and the exhaustion seeping into her bones. 

Silence follows her outburst. Billie thinks that Steve's probably just going to walk away, get back in his car and hotbox, or whatever it is he came out here to do in the first place. There's no sound of him stomping away, though, no cutting remark, even after almost a minute has passed. Then, another. Billie finds herself relaxing, a little, the tension in her shoulders and neck releasing muscle by muscle. Her head hurts. Her face hurts. Her wrists and her neck and her feet all hurt. 

She just _hurts_.

Harrington finally blows out a sigh. "It's not a letterman," he says, which is... not what Billie expected. "You just look cold. So, like, if you _want_ my jacket, I'll let you borrow it." 

It's not... gentle, exactly. But it is _patient_ , Billie thinks, like he's holding out his hand and trying to coax a skittish stray cat toward him without a word. Truth is, she _is_ cold. Like, really fucking cold. She wishes she'd been able to grab shoes before she scrambled out her window with her keys and no real plan. 

"Billie," Steve adds, quiet. "No strings."

He's _safe_ , Billie knows. And that's what finally lets her breathe a heavy exhale as she says, "Yeah."

The sound of fabric and a zipper, followed by the shift of his weight off the hood of her car for the moment. Then there's a jacket being held out in front of her. When Billie reaches a hand out to take it, she realizes that she's going to have to come out of the blanket cocoon she's wrapped herself in. That's a whole new set of issues - her feet are going to have to touch the sharp gravel again, the bruises are going to be visible, she's in her fucking pajamas. 

He's going to _see_ her, and Harrington's not nearly as dumb as people like to think he is. It's gonna be obvious that Billie's not at her best, that something happened. 

The jacket is still in front of her, and Steve's just waiting for her to take it. 

"You can ask... you can ask _one_ question when I take this blanket off, okay?" Billie pretends her voice isn't as hoarse as it sounds to her own ears. "Just one. Got it?" 

"Can I ask one _before_ you take the blanket off?" 

Fuck. Billie considers saying no. She's pretty sure Harrington would listen, would give her the jacket anyway without asking anything of her. It's the fact that he would listen if she said no that has the words, "Yeah, but just _one_ ," slipping out of her. She's not sure what to expect, thinks she's too tired to lie if he asks something big, like why she's out here or something along those lines. 

But Steve doesn't ask anything like that. What he asks instead is, "Do you want me to put something down so you don't have to stand on the rocks?"

Billie swallows, squeezes her eyes shut for a moment as her hand fists in the soft fabric of his jacket. She feels like she's being coddled, but it's not smothering, not overwhelming like she's used to getting from people that want to _save her_ , or something. "Yeah," she chokes out. "Please, yeah, that'd be... that'd be good."

"Cool. Hang out here a minute." 

She still hasn't actually looked at him, because looking at Harrington would mean that he could look _back_ at her. Billie hears him walk away, though, figures it's safe enough she can risk a glance. 

The thing about Harrington is that he looks good. He's tall, nice shoulders, big brown eyes and soft hair that Billie's wanted to get her hands on since day one, in the dirtiest of ways. She's seen him play basketball, she knows that he's got muscle hidden underneath that preppie exterior. Billie's also seen him get good and mad, knows that it takes a while to push him to the point of boiling over. Hell, she's pushed him there a couple of times herself, especially that Halloween where she lost her shit about her little sis- about _Max_ being in a house full of boys, unsupervised. 

He didn't hit her back, though. Steve's not _like that._ He hangs out with Wheeler and the guy she cheated on him with, hauls kids around like he's everyone's exasperated older brother, saves girls from creeps at parties. 

Billie's _attracted,_ and it's a problem sometimes. Most of the time, if she's being honest. She can't help but rile him up, can't help but get him all worked up like they're seven and pulling pigtails. It's getting old, honestly. Billie's fucking tired of _everything_.

A car door closes, and Harrington turns around with something in his hands that Billie can't see in the dark. She fights the urge to cover her head with the blanket again. He's just going to see it all anyway. She's not ashamed. It's _not_ her fault. 

That's what she tells herself, anyway, clutching his jacket to herself with cold hands and anxiety crawling up her throat.

"Here." He bends over to lay something across the ground, folds it over a couple of times. Another wad of cloth lands on the hood of Billie's Camaro. "That should keep the ground from tearing up your feet. Are you wearing pants?"

"That's an extra question," Billie mutters.

"So you're not." 

Billie glances over. If he's noticed the state of her face, he's not lingering on it. "I'm wearing shorts, Harrington. The stupid green ones from school. I'm not fucking naked out here."

"No, but you _are_ cold." He grabs the fabric off the hood of the car and holds it out. "These are gonna be big on you, but the drawstring should work well enough for tonight." They're sweatpants, worn soft and comfortable-looking, far too big for Billie to wear anywhere except to bed. She'll have to like. Cuff the hems ten or fifteen times so she doesn't trip over them. 

Billie doesn't say anything. She just sucks in a breath, grabs the pants, and shifts off of the car. The big blanket is still wrapped around her like some kind of shield, but her feet don't touch the gravel - instead, they land on a towel, folded over a few times. She can feel the rocks underneath it, but they aren't sharp, don't threaten to cut into the soles of her feet. She swallows and unwraps the blanket from around her, wiggling into the jacket first. It's not fast enough to hide the fingerprint bruises on her arms, the ring of them around her neck. Her legs are okay, for once, but the rest of her... is not.

When she darts her eyes over at Steve as she gets her fingers in the waistband of her shorts, Billie's surprised to find that he's turned around, back to her. Giving her _privacy_ instead of sneaking a peek or even looking his fill. Normally she'd make some comment about it, invite him to eye-fuck her and scoff when he didn't take her up on it. Tonight, she's overwhelmingly grateful that she doesn't have to put up some shield or ask him to turn around or deal with eyes on her. 

Steve's safe. 

So Billie gets the jacket on over her tank top. She rolls the sweatpants until the hems hang heavy around her ankles, still too long. The towel is even comforting under her feet. Finally, she says, "You can turn around," in a quiet, vaguely harsh tone. Billie doesn't know how _not_ to sound brash and abrasive, at least not when she's like this - prickly and scared and on the verge of breaking into a thousand pieces.

It's too hard to raise her eyes when Steve turns. Besides, Billie's preoccupied with the stupid drawstring - her fingers are cold, and they're stumbling over the knot she's trying to make. She almost doesn't notice how Steve's taken a step or two closer. Still far enough away that he's not in her space, though. Just... closer.

"You want me to help with that?"

Steve doesn't actually make a move to take over, doesn't take the strings out of her hands and do it for her. Billie likes that. "Yeah, I can't - my fucking fingers are _cold_."

It's only then that Steve actually moves into Billie's space. His hands are big and warm when they cover hers for a brief second before Billie shoves her freezing fingers into the pockets of the jacket. The drawstring pulls as tight as it can, still pretty loose on Billie's hips. Strangely enough, she's not too worried about them falling down a little.

"Too tight?" Steve asks as he ties the strings into a bow.

Billie's tired. She's so tired. She's cold and a little hungry. She wants a shower and a solid twelve hours of sleep. Maybe it's the fact that she's swimming in Steve's clothing, maybe it's how her mind has settled into something that feels like safety. It's a moment of weakness, that's for sure. Whatever the root of it, the result is that Billie only has to lean forward a little to press her forehead against Steve's chest. 

She feels him stiffen, hears the sudden intake of breath through his nose. Shock, probably. Billie has that effect on people sometimes. 

"Sorry," she mumbles. Pulling her face away from his warm, strong chest is hard, but she can do it. She doesn't need anyone, after all. 

Truth is, though, that Billie doesn't get very far. Steve's hands are hesitant when the rest on her upper back, like he's afraid if he holds her too tight, she'll start to claw him, an angry, temperamental cat. What actually happens is that Billie just presses her face back into him, breathes deep and pretends for a minute that this is a haven. It kind of is. Steve Harrington is safe.

"I still get a question, right?" 

"You just used it, but I'll give you another." It's muffled by Steve's shirt. Billie shifts so one of her bruises doesn't hurt as much from the pressure. She should probably ice them, but she doesn't think that's gonna be possible out here. Steve's arms come up around her, slowly, giving her the chance to express her displeasure at being held. She doesn't want to protest - she wants to relax into someone bigger and stronger than she is right now, someone who can watch her back while she heals, or something.

Steve seems to get it. His arms go a little tighter, comfortable but not a cage - Billie doesn't feel trapped. She kind of feels like she could fall asleep here, actually, standing on a towel and wearing his clothes, wrapped up in him like they mean something to each other.

"You want a place to crash for the next couple of days?" Steve asks. He's full of surprises tonight, keeps asking and doing things that Billie knows make sense but that she doesn't expect. "Or, well. As long as you want, really, it's not like my parents are coming home anytime soon, so they won't give a fuck who's in the house. And, like, I have a guest room you could stay in if you wanted to. You just, uh." He pauses, and in a bold move, one of this hands drifts away from her back to gently swipe at a darkening bruise on her neck, too high to be hidden by the jacket. "You look like you could use a little while to heal up."

It's... Billie should say no. She _should_ say _no_. His parents aren't going to be there, and from anyone else, she would take that in a completely different way. Vulnerability and letting people _in,_ letting them _see_ has never worked in her favor. But Billie can't shake the feeling that Steve is different. 

Billie should say no. She should sleep in her car and sneak back into her own house in the morning, while Neil's sleeping it off. 

"Yeah," is what she says though. It's followed by a hoarse, quiet, "I can't... I-I won't... Just..." She can't get the words out. Can't say that she doesn't want this to end in sex, can't force the confession out. The idea of it makes a lump form in her throat, and then she's well and truly fucked in the speaking department.

"No, Billie, I..." 

Steve moves again, the hand on Billie's cheek going down to her back again. It's warm and solid against her, even though the jacket and her thin top, steady. Billie's not a small girl by any means, is all curves and a charismatic presence. It's strange how Steve suddenly feels so... so _big_ around her like this. 

"I'm not... I don't _expect_ anything, okay? I won't ask you to do _anything_ you don't... I'm not gonna, like, take advantage of you." If Steve notices the way his shirt is slowly getting wet, he doesn't mention it. "I just. I just want you to be safe, for a little while, at least. As long as you want to be." Billie doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to - he rambles when he's given the opportunity, when emotions shift. 

She's so fucking tired.

"So, like, the guest room is set up. I can have Max bring some of your stuff over, like clothes or whatever, or we can go get them or buy them or... I don't know, I'll figure it out. We can lock your car up and come get it in the morning. I don't think you're good to drive, Billie." 

He's right, she's not good to drive. Billie feels like she could fall asleep any minute, even has her eyes closed against his shirt. There are tears, she thinks, but not great heaving sobs - a slow trickle of release, emotion draining from her. She doesn't want to sleep in her car. She doesn't want to go home. She doesn't want to be _seen_ by anyone else. 

"Okay," she says around a yawn. "That's... yeah, okay. Thanks, Harrington. Steve. Thanks, Steve."

"Sure." He holds her for another moment, until Billie shivers as the breeze picks up. "You want me to carry you over to my car? So your feet don't, like... touch the rocks?" 

Surprisingly, she does. Billie answers by looping her arms around his neck, and she doesn't flinch when his hands carefully curl around the backs of her thighs to lift her. Steve is safe, Steve's not going to cop a feel or squeeze too tight. He gets her settled in the passenger seat with gentle hands. It should be alarming how Billie melts into the comfortable seat, listens to him grabbing her cigarettes and locking her car. He comes back with her blanket, and she murmurs something that could be a thanks as she curls into it. When Steve slides into the driver's side of the BMW, he starts the car and immediately turns the heat up, fiddles with the radio until it lands on something that could be soft rock, maybe. 

Billie doesn't know. She doesn't hear much of it, honestly. Once he gets the car on the road, she gives herself over to the warmth and comfort, slips into sleep with her head leaned against the window, lulled by the gentle tap of his finger against the steering wheel in time with the music she can barely hear.

She still hurts. She's still angry, somewhere deep inside. She still wants to drive off into the western sunset. Right now, it's enough that Billie feels safe, and it's enough to let her rest.

**Author's Note:**

> Watch this become yet another series.


End file.
